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Working Calves

You might as well get used to reading the phrase “working calves” on this site, because at this time of year that’s simply all we do. If you are at all averse to reading the phrase “working calves”, if you are allergic to the phrase, if the phrase gives you nervous twitches, or if the phrase causes you to break out in a pimply-like rash in your skin folds, you might want to steer clear (Huh huh. Get it? “Steer clear?” Man, I need a life.) of this website for the next few months. I guess I could abbreviate the phrase “working calves” to accommodate those of you who might have a psychological, physiological, or biological problem with it. I suppose I could say “we did some more of the ol’ W.C. today.” But isn’t W.C. another term for toilet? I’ll have to give this a little more thought.

I really do love working calves. (I said it again), especially when they’re small and sweet and furry and curious.

I especially love working calves when the whole family is present. You just never know what’s gonna go down.

For instance, there’s My Pesky Brother-in-Law, Tim. He’s eating a doughnut and making a weird face at his daughter. She’s the one in the cute and spunky hat. And the jeans with the manure on the seat.

Speaking of manure on the seat.

All I’m saying is, nobody ever told me there’d be laundry like this.

And I know why they didn’t. Because I would have run. I would have run far and fast, screaming in terror. And I never would have returned.

And that’s exactly what I wanted to do Saturday when I looked at the pile of denim and filth on the floor of my laundry room. But it’s too late now. I can’t run far and fast. I’ve already procreated.

I HATE it when that happens!

Okay, another thing I love about working calves with the entire family is watching my oldest daughter open up a can of whoop ass on her cousin, Pesky Tim’s boy.

He’s always the one that starts it.

But my girl? My girl’s the one that finishes it.

It always takes her a moment to pry off his little wiry arms…

But once she does…

It’s all over for him.

Poor kid.

He never stood a chance.

He’s airborne!

And down he goes.

And look—she’s still smilin’. That’s the sign of a true cowgirl gladiator.

But she’s not content just to body slam him to the ground.

She’s gotta stomp the little maggot once and for all.

This is the part where her very supportive father, Marlboro Man, calls out from the sidelines, “Kill him, sweetie! Make him PAY!”

I’m so glad I live in the country. It’s just so much about the love, the peace, and the harmony.